Fic: The Cuckoo's Lullaby, 5/17
Jul. 13th, 2014 01:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swissmargTitle: The Cuckoo's Lullaby
Author:
swissmarg
Beta readers:ruth0007, 
dioscureantwins
Rating: R
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Other characters: Irene Adler, OCs
Word count: ca. 85K when complete
Summary: Sequel to 'Cracks in the In-Between Places'. A Swiss holiday seems to be the perfect way for the Holmeses and the Watsons to recover from their recent troubles and deepen their attachments to each other, but when Tristram's mother and the bogeyman both turn up, loyalties are put to the ultimate test.
See Chapter One for additional notes
Chapter Five on AO3
John hears the hotel room door open then snick quietly shut. He lays his book aside and goes out to the living room. Sherlock is there, taking off his coat. John glances automatically at the pulled out couch bed. Tristram and Emily are sleeping soundly, both on their backs with their heads turned slightly toward each other, as if they were just talking and dropped off.
"Hey," John whispers, tearing his eyes away from them to look at Sherlock. "Everything all right?"
Sherlock drapes his coat over a chair, but not before removing a small plastic bag with a chemist's logo on it. "Fine." He walks past John into the bathroom, taking the bag with him, and closes the door.
John hovers there for a moment, gives the children one last look, then goes into the bedroom and gets back into bed. He doesn't pick up his book again, but he also doesn't turn on the overhead light, leaving the room illuminated only by the reading light on his side of the bed.
He is sitting up in bed with the covers over his legs when Sherlock comes in a while later and closes the door behind him. Sherlock still has the plastic bag with him, which he drops onto the foot of the bed before going over to the closet and taking off his jacket.
"So where'd you go?" John asks, deliberately casual.
"Down to the bar." Sherlock hangs his jacket up in the closet, taking his time to get the line just so.
"Oh right, yeah. Could probably use a drink myself," John says, trying to lighten the mood. He falls silent, watching Sherlock. Then, as if the silence is too much, he adds, "I'm a bit concerned about a couple of spots on Tris's back. I was going to take the stitches out tomorrow, but there's some redness there. Might just be irritated from travelling and all, but-"
Sherlock sits down on the chair in the corner of the room and takes off his shoes. "Tristram's mother is here," he says without looking at John.
John gapes at him for several seconds. "Sorry what?" he asks.
"I don't much like repeating myself," Sherlock says curtly, peeling his socks off as well and tossing them into the bottom of the closet. This time he meets John's eye.
"Yeah, well I'm certain I didn't hear you right, because I thought you said Tris's mother was here."
"Yes." Sherlock stands up and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
John leans forward, a confused smile flickering over his face. "How is that- Tristram's mother's dead."
Sherlock frowns. "No, she isn't. Whatever gave you that idea?"
John watches the unwitting strip tease, watches the long fingers flicking over the buttons, revealing ever more skin. He runs his tongue over his lower lip, gives himself a shake, and says, "I don't- All right, maybe I just assumed, I'm sorry. She's here? How?"
"She's the lounge act." Sherlock peels his shirt off and hangs it in the closet, too.
John appears to be momentarily distracted by the expanse of pale skin. "Sorry," he says when Sherlock turns around again. "She works here?"
"That is what being the lounge act implies. I presume she's not doing it for charity." Sherlock undoes his flies.
It takes John a while to formulate his next thought. There is narrow, dark line of hair leading from Sherlock's navel into the waistband of his pants. "Did you know she was going to be here when you booked this place?"
"Of course not! I haven't had contact with her since Tristram was born. Even then it was by text message. I haven't actually seen her since several weeks before that." He shimmies out of his trousers and hangs them in the closet too.
"And you're certain it's her?" John drags his eyes up to Sherlock's.
Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him. "Of course I'm certain it's her, John. It would take a little more than a little cosmetic dental work and a new hairstyle to fool me." He then snaps his underwear down in one swift movement. He steps out of them and kicks them toward the closet. He is now completely nude.
John widens his eyes, staring first at Sherlock's genitals then slowly raising his gaze once again to his face. "Hello," he says, sounding somewhat stunned, yet not in any way averse to the development.
Sherlock grins predatorily and advances on him. "Hello," he purrs. He crawls up the bed until he's poised on all fours right in front of John. He nuzzles his face against John's before kissing him, first gently, then more deeply.
"What are you doing?" John asks, smiling around a kiss.
"I should think that fairly obvious," Sherlock says.
"Yeah, hold on, we were having a conversation."
"Boring." Sherlock kisses him some more. He settles himself so he's sitting on John's lap, on top of the covers, and works one hand in under John's t-shirt.
"I er..." John sucks in a breath suddenly. "...was interested," he finishes, not altogether convincingly.
"This is more interesting." Sherlock covers John's mouth with his again and brings his other hand up, spanning John's waist and massaging his abdomen and ribs with his thumbs.
John leans back a bit so he can speak. "Tris's mother, Sherlock!" He grabs Sherlock's arms to hold him in place.
Sherlock darts forward to catch his mouth again. "Irrelevant."
John shakes his head and insists, pushing Sherlock gently but firmly away. "She's really not!"
Sherlock exhales heavily and gets off the bed in one smooth motion.
"Yeah, hang on, where are you going?" John asks, his voice rising to a strident pitch.
Sherlock goes to the closet and pulls a t-shirt off one of the shelves. "If you insist on talking, I may as well put some clothes on," he says petulantly.
John points at him. "That's not fair. You can't just waltz in here, announce out of the blue that Tris's mother is here, and then turn around and try to seduce me in the next breath."
"No, apparently not." Sherlock pulls on a fresh pair of pants as well.
John sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "No, that's- Come here. Come on, come over here." John flips the cover back next to him.
Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed with his back to John. He's silent for a few moments, then begins speaking in a low voice. "I had no idea she was here, I promise you. She's going by a different name now, anyway. Irene Adler. Must be a stage name. I went out to get the..." He gestures behind him, where the plastic bag is still lying on top of the cover. "When I came back, I heard her voice from the bar, some inane patter between songs, and I knew right away..."
"Some coincidence," John remarks.
Sherlock is silent for several beats before saying slowly, "Yes." The response doesn't invite a great deal of confidence.
"You don't think so?" John asks. "You think she knew we'd be here?"
"She's been headlining here for two weeks already. Apparently she's engaged for the mid-season leading up to Christmas. Our reservations weren't made until three days ago. I don't see how." Sherlock sounds dismissive, yet not entirely convinced.
"And yet?"
Sherlock shakes his head. "I don't know."
"Sherlock... You know something. I can hear it."
"I don't know." He turns his head halfway toward John.
"But you suspect. What... Do you think Mycroft? He's the only other one who knew where we were going."
Sherlock is silent again. Then he shoves himself back on the bed so he's sitting next to John against the headboard. "Yes, you're right," he says without much concern, giving John a small smile. "Must have been Mycroft." He pulls the covers over his legs.
"Wh- Right, okay," John says, although he doesn't look like he buys it completely. "And he knows all about Tris's mother? Irene, she goes by now?"
Sherlock makes a sound of agreement.
"What'd she use to be called? Back when you knew her?"
"Godfreya Norton."
John snorts. "Jesus, were your families part of some weird Anglo-Saxon cult? Sherlock and Godfreya? Seriously?"
Sherlock gives John a sidelong look. "There's nothing wrong with names that have a bit of history," he says, a bit petulantly. "What about John and Mary? Your parents must have thought long and hard about those."
"Hey, those are two of the most historical names ever."
"And Emily-"
John holds up a hand. "Don't," he warns. "I'm not saying anything about Tris's name either."
"You do every time you mention it. You can't even bring yourself to say the entire thing. Next thing you'll be calling me Sher," he says, pulling a face.
"Oh, that's just... No," John says. "Sherly maybe," he offers straight-faced.
Sherlock snorts.
"Mike." John holds his breath, not daring to look at Sherlock.
Sherlock breaks first, shaking with laughter for several long seconds before he's able to speak. "He actually does get called that on occasion."
"By who?" John gasps.
"Women."
John and Sherlock look at each other and lose it completely.
"Oh God, oh my God," John wheezes when he can finally catch a breath. "Ground rules. When we are in bed together, never, ever mention your brother."
"You're the one who started it," Sherlock says through diminishing chuckles.
"Oh God, yeah, you're right. Next time shoot me or something." John rolls his head against the wall behind him so he can look Sherlock in the face again. His giggles slowly dissipate.
Sherlock sobers too. His eyes flicker down to John's mouth. "I could try this..." He leans closer.
John's breath hitches and his lips part automatically. Sherlock closes the distance and John's eyes fall shut.
"Yeah... think that'll do," John says, panting slightly when they break for air a while later. His eyes, when he opens them, are slightly unfocused. "What were we talking about?"
"No idea."
"Me either."
John leans in to kiss Sherlock again, this time turning his body sideways so he's facing Sherlock, and runs a hand lightly down his arm. When he reaches Sherlock's hand, he intertwines their fingers. He pulls away and slides down in the bed, keeping his eyes on Sherlock's. Sherlock follows him until they are on their sides facing each other. John brings their still joined hands to his mouth and kisses Sherlock's fingers.
"You're going to have to tell me sometime," John murmurs against his skin.
"Not now," Sherlock says. He scoots himself closer and hooks his leg over John's. His breath is loud as he watches John's lips brushing back and forth over his knuckles.
John pauses with his mouth still resting against Sherlock's fingers.
"Did you lock the door?" John asks.
"No lock," Sherlock says. "Don't worry," he adds when he feels John hesitate. "They won't come in."
John pulls the duvet up over them so they are mostly covered and rolls onto his back so he can reach the reading light on the nightstand behind him.
"Leave it on," Sherlock says in a low voice and shifts so he can lean over John. He braces himself with one arm on John's chest and studies his face: his dark, half-lidded eyes, his mouth, slightly parted and expectant.
"Christ, I want to touch you," John says.
Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock picks up John's hand from where it's resting on the mattress and slides it under his tee. John draws his lower lip in and wets it then tilts his face up in invitation. Sherlock dips in to brush his mouth over John's, just enough so they can share breath. John stretches his lips to steal tiny kisses, but Sherlock moves with him, never allowing their mouths to fully meet.
John chuckles. "Tease," he murmurs. He slides his hand further under Sherlock's shirt, palming his abdomen and side and rubbing his thumb over one nipple. All the time, his eyes never leave Sherlock's face. With his other hand, he reaches around and pulls the shirt up at the back. "All right?" he asks.
Sherlock takes the hint and hunches his shoulders so John can lift the t-shirt up over his head, then shifts his weight onto his hip so he can free his arms. His top now bare, his hair tousled and tangled, he looks down at John. John stares back, drinking in the sight as if he's never going to get another chance.
He takes so long that Sherlock finally breaks the silence: "You wanted to touch me," he says. A reminder, but there's uncertainty there too.
"Yeah," John says. His voice is thick and hushed. He looks down at his hands as they splay across Sherlock's skin, skimming lightly up and down his sides, around to Sherlock's back and up over his shoulders. John's touch becomes more firm and sure, rubbing and kneading, testing to find the spots that make Sherlock's breath catch. There are a lot of them.
Sherlock's head hangs down between his shoulders. His eyes have drifted shut and his breaths are coming faster.
"Come here," John says. He nudges at Sherlock until he lowers himself to rest his bare torso against John's still clothed one. John tucks him in close, and Sherlock slides his arms under John's shoulders and nuzzles into the side of his head.
He kisses John's ear and the corner of his jaw before returning to his mouth so they can exchange gentle, languid kisses. There is nothing desperate between them, only tenderness and the wonder of exploration and discovery.
"You feel incredible," John says. The words come out rusty, as if he hasn't spoken in a long time.
"Take this off." Sherlock twists his fingers into the material of John's t-shirt under his shoulders.
Sherlock lifts up enough that John can work his shirt up and over his head. Sherlock's eyes sweep down John's torso, taking in the smattering of brown and grey hairs on his chest, the soft pink nipples and gently smiling navel.
"All right?" John asks. His expression is somewhere between amused and self-conscious.
Holding himself up on one elbow, Sherlock puts the flat of his other hand on John's belly and smooths it across the surface. "Very," he says approvingly before lowering his head to put his mouth on John's shoulder, his chest, his stomach. When he gets to the waistband of John's pyjamas, he pauses, then carefully brushes his cheek against the hardness underneath it.
John's hands clench convulsively around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock raises his head to look at John, checking that it's all right. John's eyes are glassy and his lips are red.
"You're gorgeous, fuck, come here," John whispers.
Sherlock slides up John's body until their hips are aligned. He holds himself up enough that the heaviness between his legs bumps against John's without the weight of his body crushing him. Their kisses this time are deep and lingering. When Sherlock lets his weight sink a fraction lower, his hips start circling and his kisses become sloppier. John plucks at the side of his pants.
"Come on, take these off..." he rumbles.
Sherlock stills and bends his neck to rest his forehead on John's shoulder, breathing open-mouthed as if catching his breath. Without looking at John, he reaches down with one hand and shoves his underwear out of the way.
"Where's that bag then?" John asks, patting blindly around on top of the cover behind Sherlock.
Sherlock rolls his forehead back and forth against John's collarbone. "I don't... somewhere." The words come out stilted and awkward. His hands, still on John's shoulders, are sticky and damp.
John stills. "Everything all right?"
Sherlock lifts up abruptly. His mouth is puffy and red. His face and neck have pink blotches where John lingered or rubbed a bit too hard. His eyes are wide and there's something skittish behind them. But he says, "Fine. Do you want to penetrate me or the other way round?" His voice comes out a bit too loud for the time and place.
John searches Sherlock's face and answers carefully, "I er... thought we could go on like we were, maybe a little lube? Not that... it's fine, we can try that too, but maybe when we have some more time to prepare, a bit more privacy. Is that all right?"
"Yes, sorry, I..." Sherlock frowns and looks around for the bag. "It's fine," he says again. This time it's brisk and businesslike.
"Hey, I don't-" John touches Sherlock's shoulder. "You're not disappointed, are you? I was enjoying it. Quite a lot. Maybe tonight we could go a little slower though?"
"Yes, of course. It's just you said, 'properly', and I thought..." Sherlock finds the bag stuffed down in a fold of the cover and pulls it out. The plastic crinkles sharply.
"God, no, I just meant... this. Being together, like this, no pressure and no interruptions."
Sherlock props himself up on one elbow so he can dump out the bag's contents on the mattress next to them. There's a strip of condoms wrapped in purple foil and a pump bottle of a clear, viscous liquid. He sets about picking away the plastic safety seal from the bottle. John watches. Sherlock appears completely focused on the plastic that doesn't seem to want to budge.
"Hey, leave that, come on. Leave that a sec," John says when Sherlock starts to frown. John leans down, twisting to insert himself into Sherlock's field of vision. He waits until Sherlock leaves off the lubricant and looks at John. The frown is still in place.
"That's better," John says. "Now. I want to be together with you, like this." He stretches his neck up to kiss Sherlock, but it doesn't remove Sherlock's tension. John doesn't give up. "I want to find out what you like," he says between kisses, "and I want to share it with you." He shifts his weight and pushes against Sherlock until Sherlock drops down onto his back and John is now leaning over him. John sweeps the condoms and lubricant out of the way, toward the headboard. He stares down at Sherlock. "You're incredible."
"You've already said that."
John's eyes crinkle with amusement. "Bears repeating."
"I'm not sure you fully understand what the word means. I'm entirely believable. I'm hardly a figment of your imagination."
"Sometimes I wonder," John says softly. "God." He lays one hand alongside Sherlock's cheek so that his thumb brushes Sherlock's mouth.
As if on auto-pilot, Sherlock's tongue peeks out and flicks against the thumb. John moves his thumb out of the way just enough to make room for his own tongue on Sherlock's lips, nothing more than gentle touches and licks with the tip. Now it's Sherlock's turn to stretch and strain for more, and John's doesn't withhold it, lowering himself to rest half on top of Sherlock so they can comfortably reach each other. Sherlock grasps the back of John's thigh and pulls his leg up so it's bent across Sherlock's legs. John's knee brushes Sherlock's crotch, and as soon as he realises that fact, John snugs in closer and gently rocks against him. When Sherlock's hips start to gravitate upward, seeking something, seeking more, John reaches blindly above them and scrabbles at the pump until some of the liquid comes out. Without leaving off Sherlock's mouth, he reaches down and puts his hand inside his own pants.
"Come on, come here, like you were before," John says once he's ready and has pushed his underwear down as far as he can get it one-handed. He rolls onto his back and tugs at Sherlock's arm.
Sherlock rolls onto him compliantly, following John's lips more than anything else. As soon as he settles in, though, John's slick skin against his heat, he freezes with his lips resting on John's and a sound between a grunt and a sigh escapes into John's mouth.
"This okay?" John asks.
"Incredible," Sherlock manages after some tentative little thrusts that quickly become more vigorous.
"Are you sure you know what that-" But John's teasing question is cut off by Sherlock taking feverish possession of his mouth.
John wraps his arms around Sherlock's body and he presses firm, steady hands against the undulating muscles of Sherlock's back. Sherlock's arms are braced on the mattress on either side of John, where his hands flex and clench in an odd syncopated rhythm with the increasingly erratic motions of his hips. Their kisses are little more than breathless smears and both of them are making sounds that start somewhere deeper than their throats. They whisper each other's names, as if inventing a new, secret language, and when first one climaxes, then the other, the echo reverberates between their hearts.
Author:
swissmargBeta readers:
ruth0007, Rating: R
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Other characters: Irene Adler, OCs
Word count: ca. 85K when complete
Summary: Sequel to 'Cracks in the In-Between Places'. A Swiss holiday seems to be the perfect way for the Holmeses and the Watsons to recover from their recent troubles and deepen their attachments to each other, but when Tristram's mother and the bogeyman both turn up, loyalties are put to the ultimate test.
See Chapter One for additional notes
Chapter Five on AO3
Chapter Five
John hears the hotel room door open then snick quietly shut. He lays his book aside and goes out to the living room. Sherlock is there, taking off his coat. John glances automatically at the pulled out couch bed. Tristram and Emily are sleeping soundly, both on their backs with their heads turned slightly toward each other, as if they were just talking and dropped off.
"Hey," John whispers, tearing his eyes away from them to look at Sherlock. "Everything all right?"
Sherlock drapes his coat over a chair, but not before removing a small plastic bag with a chemist's logo on it. "Fine." He walks past John into the bathroom, taking the bag with him, and closes the door.
John hovers there for a moment, gives the children one last look, then goes into the bedroom and gets back into bed. He doesn't pick up his book again, but he also doesn't turn on the overhead light, leaving the room illuminated only by the reading light on his side of the bed.
He is sitting up in bed with the covers over his legs when Sherlock comes in a while later and closes the door behind him. Sherlock still has the plastic bag with him, which he drops onto the foot of the bed before going over to the closet and taking off his jacket.
"So where'd you go?" John asks, deliberately casual.
"Down to the bar." Sherlock hangs his jacket up in the closet, taking his time to get the line just so.
"Oh right, yeah. Could probably use a drink myself," John says, trying to lighten the mood. He falls silent, watching Sherlock. Then, as if the silence is too much, he adds, "I'm a bit concerned about a couple of spots on Tris's back. I was going to take the stitches out tomorrow, but there's some redness there. Might just be irritated from travelling and all, but-"
Sherlock sits down on the chair in the corner of the room and takes off his shoes. "Tristram's mother is here," he says without looking at John.
John gapes at him for several seconds. "Sorry what?" he asks.
"I don't much like repeating myself," Sherlock says curtly, peeling his socks off as well and tossing them into the bottom of the closet. This time he meets John's eye.
"Yeah, well I'm certain I didn't hear you right, because I thought you said Tris's mother was here."
"Yes." Sherlock stands up and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
John leans forward, a confused smile flickering over his face. "How is that- Tristram's mother's dead."
Sherlock frowns. "No, she isn't. Whatever gave you that idea?"
John watches the unwitting strip tease, watches the long fingers flicking over the buttons, revealing ever more skin. He runs his tongue over his lower lip, gives himself a shake, and says, "I don't- All right, maybe I just assumed, I'm sorry. She's here? How?"
"She's the lounge act." Sherlock peels his shirt off and hangs it in the closet, too.
John appears to be momentarily distracted by the expanse of pale skin. "Sorry," he says when Sherlock turns around again. "She works here?"
"That is what being the lounge act implies. I presume she's not doing it for charity." Sherlock undoes his flies.
It takes John a while to formulate his next thought. There is narrow, dark line of hair leading from Sherlock's navel into the waistband of his pants. "Did you know she was going to be here when you booked this place?"
"Of course not! I haven't had contact with her since Tristram was born. Even then it was by text message. I haven't actually seen her since several weeks before that." He shimmies out of his trousers and hangs them in the closet too.
"And you're certain it's her?" John drags his eyes up to Sherlock's.
Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him. "Of course I'm certain it's her, John. It would take a little more than a little cosmetic dental work and a new hairstyle to fool me." He then snaps his underwear down in one swift movement. He steps out of them and kicks them toward the closet. He is now completely nude.
John widens his eyes, staring first at Sherlock's genitals then slowly raising his gaze once again to his face. "Hello," he says, sounding somewhat stunned, yet not in any way averse to the development.
Sherlock grins predatorily and advances on him. "Hello," he purrs. He crawls up the bed until he's poised on all fours right in front of John. He nuzzles his face against John's before kissing him, first gently, then more deeply.
"What are you doing?" John asks, smiling around a kiss.
"I should think that fairly obvious," Sherlock says.
"Yeah, hold on, we were having a conversation."
"Boring." Sherlock kisses him some more. He settles himself so he's sitting on John's lap, on top of the covers, and works one hand in under John's t-shirt.
"I er..." John sucks in a breath suddenly. "...was interested," he finishes, not altogether convincingly.
"This is more interesting." Sherlock covers John's mouth with his again and brings his other hand up, spanning John's waist and massaging his abdomen and ribs with his thumbs.
John leans back a bit so he can speak. "Tris's mother, Sherlock!" He grabs Sherlock's arms to hold him in place.
Sherlock darts forward to catch his mouth again. "Irrelevant."
John shakes his head and insists, pushing Sherlock gently but firmly away. "She's really not!"
Sherlock exhales heavily and gets off the bed in one smooth motion.
"Yeah, hang on, where are you going?" John asks, his voice rising to a strident pitch.
Sherlock goes to the closet and pulls a t-shirt off one of the shelves. "If you insist on talking, I may as well put some clothes on," he says petulantly.
John points at him. "That's not fair. You can't just waltz in here, announce out of the blue that Tris's mother is here, and then turn around and try to seduce me in the next breath."
"No, apparently not." Sherlock pulls on a fresh pair of pants as well.
John sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "No, that's- Come here. Come on, come over here." John flips the cover back next to him.
Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed with his back to John. He's silent for a few moments, then begins speaking in a low voice. "I had no idea she was here, I promise you. She's going by a different name now, anyway. Irene Adler. Must be a stage name. I went out to get the..." He gestures behind him, where the plastic bag is still lying on top of the cover. "When I came back, I heard her voice from the bar, some inane patter between songs, and I knew right away..."
"Some coincidence," John remarks.
Sherlock is silent for several beats before saying slowly, "Yes." The response doesn't invite a great deal of confidence.
"You don't think so?" John asks. "You think she knew we'd be here?"
"She's been headlining here for two weeks already. Apparently she's engaged for the mid-season leading up to Christmas. Our reservations weren't made until three days ago. I don't see how." Sherlock sounds dismissive, yet not entirely convinced.
"And yet?"
Sherlock shakes his head. "I don't know."
"Sherlock... You know something. I can hear it."
"I don't know." He turns his head halfway toward John.
"But you suspect. What... Do you think Mycroft? He's the only other one who knew where we were going."
Sherlock is silent again. Then he shoves himself back on the bed so he's sitting next to John against the headboard. "Yes, you're right," he says without much concern, giving John a small smile. "Must have been Mycroft." He pulls the covers over his legs.
"Wh- Right, okay," John says, although he doesn't look like he buys it completely. "And he knows all about Tris's mother? Irene, she goes by now?"
Sherlock makes a sound of agreement.
"What'd she use to be called? Back when you knew her?"
"Godfreya Norton."
John snorts. "Jesus, were your families part of some weird Anglo-Saxon cult? Sherlock and Godfreya? Seriously?"
Sherlock gives John a sidelong look. "There's nothing wrong with names that have a bit of history," he says, a bit petulantly. "What about John and Mary? Your parents must have thought long and hard about those."
"Hey, those are two of the most historical names ever."
"And Emily-"
John holds up a hand. "Don't," he warns. "I'm not saying anything about Tris's name either."
"You do every time you mention it. You can't even bring yourself to say the entire thing. Next thing you'll be calling me Sher," he says, pulling a face.
"Oh, that's just... No," John says. "Sherly maybe," he offers straight-faced.
Sherlock snorts.
"Mike." John holds his breath, not daring to look at Sherlock.
Sherlock breaks first, shaking with laughter for several long seconds before he's able to speak. "He actually does get called that on occasion."
"By who?" John gasps.
"Women."
John and Sherlock look at each other and lose it completely.
"Oh God, oh my God," John wheezes when he can finally catch a breath. "Ground rules. When we are in bed together, never, ever mention your brother."
"You're the one who started it," Sherlock says through diminishing chuckles.
"Oh God, yeah, you're right. Next time shoot me or something." John rolls his head against the wall behind him so he can look Sherlock in the face again. His giggles slowly dissipate.
Sherlock sobers too. His eyes flicker down to John's mouth. "I could try this..." He leans closer.
John's breath hitches and his lips part automatically. Sherlock closes the distance and John's eyes fall shut.
"Yeah... think that'll do," John says, panting slightly when they break for air a while later. His eyes, when he opens them, are slightly unfocused. "What were we talking about?"
"No idea."
"Me either."
John leans in to kiss Sherlock again, this time turning his body sideways so he's facing Sherlock, and runs a hand lightly down his arm. When he reaches Sherlock's hand, he intertwines their fingers. He pulls away and slides down in the bed, keeping his eyes on Sherlock's. Sherlock follows him until they are on their sides facing each other. John brings their still joined hands to his mouth and kisses Sherlock's fingers.
"You're going to have to tell me sometime," John murmurs against his skin.
"Not now," Sherlock says. He scoots himself closer and hooks his leg over John's. His breath is loud as he watches John's lips brushing back and forth over his knuckles.
John pauses with his mouth still resting against Sherlock's fingers.
"Did you lock the door?" John asks.
"No lock," Sherlock says. "Don't worry," he adds when he feels John hesitate. "They won't come in."
John pulls the duvet up over them so they are mostly covered and rolls onto his back so he can reach the reading light on the nightstand behind him.
"Leave it on," Sherlock says in a low voice and shifts so he can lean over John. He braces himself with one arm on John's chest and studies his face: his dark, half-lidded eyes, his mouth, slightly parted and expectant.
"Christ, I want to touch you," John says.
Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock picks up John's hand from where it's resting on the mattress and slides it under his tee. John draws his lower lip in and wets it then tilts his face up in invitation. Sherlock dips in to brush his mouth over John's, just enough so they can share breath. John stretches his lips to steal tiny kisses, but Sherlock moves with him, never allowing their mouths to fully meet.
John chuckles. "Tease," he murmurs. He slides his hand further under Sherlock's shirt, palming his abdomen and side and rubbing his thumb over one nipple. All the time, his eyes never leave Sherlock's face. With his other hand, he reaches around and pulls the shirt up at the back. "All right?" he asks.
Sherlock takes the hint and hunches his shoulders so John can lift the t-shirt up over his head, then shifts his weight onto his hip so he can free his arms. His top now bare, his hair tousled and tangled, he looks down at John. John stares back, drinking in the sight as if he's never going to get another chance.
He takes so long that Sherlock finally breaks the silence: "You wanted to touch me," he says. A reminder, but there's uncertainty there too.
"Yeah," John says. His voice is thick and hushed. He looks down at his hands as they splay across Sherlock's skin, skimming lightly up and down his sides, around to Sherlock's back and up over his shoulders. John's touch becomes more firm and sure, rubbing and kneading, testing to find the spots that make Sherlock's breath catch. There are a lot of them.
Sherlock's head hangs down between his shoulders. His eyes have drifted shut and his breaths are coming faster.
"Come here," John says. He nudges at Sherlock until he lowers himself to rest his bare torso against John's still clothed one. John tucks him in close, and Sherlock slides his arms under John's shoulders and nuzzles into the side of his head.
He kisses John's ear and the corner of his jaw before returning to his mouth so they can exchange gentle, languid kisses. There is nothing desperate between them, only tenderness and the wonder of exploration and discovery.
"You feel incredible," John says. The words come out rusty, as if he hasn't spoken in a long time.
"Take this off." Sherlock twists his fingers into the material of John's t-shirt under his shoulders.
Sherlock lifts up enough that John can work his shirt up and over his head. Sherlock's eyes sweep down John's torso, taking in the smattering of brown and grey hairs on his chest, the soft pink nipples and gently smiling navel.
"All right?" John asks. His expression is somewhere between amused and self-conscious.
Holding himself up on one elbow, Sherlock puts the flat of his other hand on John's belly and smooths it across the surface. "Very," he says approvingly before lowering his head to put his mouth on John's shoulder, his chest, his stomach. When he gets to the waistband of John's pyjamas, he pauses, then carefully brushes his cheek against the hardness underneath it.
John's hands clench convulsively around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock raises his head to look at John, checking that it's all right. John's eyes are glassy and his lips are red.
"You're gorgeous, fuck, come here," John whispers.
Sherlock slides up John's body until their hips are aligned. He holds himself up enough that the heaviness between his legs bumps against John's without the weight of his body crushing him. Their kisses this time are deep and lingering. When Sherlock lets his weight sink a fraction lower, his hips start circling and his kisses become sloppier. John plucks at the side of his pants.
"Come on, take these off..." he rumbles.
Sherlock stills and bends his neck to rest his forehead on John's shoulder, breathing open-mouthed as if catching his breath. Without looking at John, he reaches down with one hand and shoves his underwear out of the way.
"Where's that bag then?" John asks, patting blindly around on top of the cover behind Sherlock.
Sherlock rolls his forehead back and forth against John's collarbone. "I don't... somewhere." The words come out stilted and awkward. His hands, still on John's shoulders, are sticky and damp.
John stills. "Everything all right?"
Sherlock lifts up abruptly. His mouth is puffy and red. His face and neck have pink blotches where John lingered or rubbed a bit too hard. His eyes are wide and there's something skittish behind them. But he says, "Fine. Do you want to penetrate me or the other way round?" His voice comes out a bit too loud for the time and place.
John searches Sherlock's face and answers carefully, "I er... thought we could go on like we were, maybe a little lube? Not that... it's fine, we can try that too, but maybe when we have some more time to prepare, a bit more privacy. Is that all right?"
"Yes, sorry, I..." Sherlock frowns and looks around for the bag. "It's fine," he says again. This time it's brisk and businesslike.
"Hey, I don't-" John touches Sherlock's shoulder. "You're not disappointed, are you? I was enjoying it. Quite a lot. Maybe tonight we could go a little slower though?"
"Yes, of course. It's just you said, 'properly', and I thought..." Sherlock finds the bag stuffed down in a fold of the cover and pulls it out. The plastic crinkles sharply.
"God, no, I just meant... this. Being together, like this, no pressure and no interruptions."
Sherlock props himself up on one elbow so he can dump out the bag's contents on the mattress next to them. There's a strip of condoms wrapped in purple foil and a pump bottle of a clear, viscous liquid. He sets about picking away the plastic safety seal from the bottle. John watches. Sherlock appears completely focused on the plastic that doesn't seem to want to budge.
"Hey, leave that, come on. Leave that a sec," John says when Sherlock starts to frown. John leans down, twisting to insert himself into Sherlock's field of vision. He waits until Sherlock leaves off the lubricant and looks at John. The frown is still in place.
"That's better," John says. "Now. I want to be together with you, like this." He stretches his neck up to kiss Sherlock, but it doesn't remove Sherlock's tension. John doesn't give up. "I want to find out what you like," he says between kisses, "and I want to share it with you." He shifts his weight and pushes against Sherlock until Sherlock drops down onto his back and John is now leaning over him. John sweeps the condoms and lubricant out of the way, toward the headboard. He stares down at Sherlock. "You're incredible."
"You've already said that."
John's eyes crinkle with amusement. "Bears repeating."
"I'm not sure you fully understand what the word means. I'm entirely believable. I'm hardly a figment of your imagination."
"Sometimes I wonder," John says softly. "God." He lays one hand alongside Sherlock's cheek so that his thumb brushes Sherlock's mouth.
As if on auto-pilot, Sherlock's tongue peeks out and flicks against the thumb. John moves his thumb out of the way just enough to make room for his own tongue on Sherlock's lips, nothing more than gentle touches and licks with the tip. Now it's Sherlock's turn to stretch and strain for more, and John's doesn't withhold it, lowering himself to rest half on top of Sherlock so they can comfortably reach each other. Sherlock grasps the back of John's thigh and pulls his leg up so it's bent across Sherlock's legs. John's knee brushes Sherlock's crotch, and as soon as he realises that fact, John snugs in closer and gently rocks against him. When Sherlock's hips start to gravitate upward, seeking something, seeking more, John reaches blindly above them and scrabbles at the pump until some of the liquid comes out. Without leaving off Sherlock's mouth, he reaches down and puts his hand inside his own pants.
"Come on, come here, like you were before," John says once he's ready and has pushed his underwear down as far as he can get it one-handed. He rolls onto his back and tugs at Sherlock's arm.
Sherlock rolls onto him compliantly, following John's lips more than anything else. As soon as he settles in, though, John's slick skin against his heat, he freezes with his lips resting on John's and a sound between a grunt and a sigh escapes into John's mouth.
"This okay?" John asks.
"Incredible," Sherlock manages after some tentative little thrusts that quickly become more vigorous.
"Are you sure you know what that-" But John's teasing question is cut off by Sherlock taking feverish possession of his mouth.
John wraps his arms around Sherlock's body and he presses firm, steady hands against the undulating muscles of Sherlock's back. Sherlock's arms are braced on the mattress on either side of John, where his hands flex and clench in an odd syncopated rhythm with the increasingly erratic motions of his hips. Their kisses are little more than breathless smears and both of them are making sounds that start somewhere deeper than their throats. They whisper each other's names, as if inventing a new, secret language, and when first one climaxes, then the other, the echo reverberates between their hearts.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-07-15 07:07 pm (UTC)Mike!! *giggle* But yet, as John says, mentioning him is a bit of a passion-killer!
"There is nothing desperate between them, only tenderness and the wonder of exploration and discovery."
It was nice to have an 'adult' interruption to the story, and it's great to see them falling for each other, not rushing things, just enjoying being together.
no subject
Date: 2014-07-20 11:41 am (UTC)